Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Well, that was the proper sign and counter. Beaker felt some of his misgivings slide away, and ambled on into the dark cave of the rough-brick inn.

  Like most of its ilk, it had two floors, each one large room. The upper would have pallets for sleeping; the lower had a huge fireplace at one end where a stout middle-aged woman was tending an enormous pot and a roast of some kind. It was filled with clumsy benches and trestle tables now, but after the inn shut down for the night, those that could not afford a pallet upstairs would be granted leave to sleep on table, bench, or floor beneath for half the price of a pallet. Opposite the fireplace was the "bar"; a stack of beer kegs and a rack of mugs, presided over by the innkeeper.

  Beaker debated looking prosperous, when his stomach growled and made the decision for him. He paid the innkeeper for a mug of beer, a bowl of soup and a slice of roast; the man took his money, gave him his drink and a slice of not-too-stale bread. Beaker slid his pack off his back, rummaged his own bowl and spoon out of it, then shrugged it back on before weaving his way through the tables to the monarch of the "kitchen."

  Rather to his surprise—the inn staff of places like this one were rather notorious for being surly—the woman gave him a broad smile along with a full bowl, and put a reasonably generous slice of meat on his bread. Juggling all three carefully, he took a seat as near to the door as possible, and sat down to eat.

  The food was another pleasant surprise; fresh and tasty and stomach-filling. And the inn was cool after the heat and dust of the road. The beer was doing a respectable job of washing the grit out of his throat. Beaker was about halfway through his meal when her heard someone come up behind him.

  "How's the food t'day, sojer?"

  Beaker grinned and turned in his seat. "Kyra, when are you gonna get rid of that damn accent?"

  "When cows fly, prob'ly. Makes me fit in here though." She straddled the bench beside him a mug and bowl of her own in hand. "Eat here ev'ry chance I get. Ma Kemak, she sure can cook. Pa Kemak don' water the beer, neither. Finish that up, boy. We gotta get you off th' street soon's we can." She set him a good example by nearly inhaling her soup.

  From the inn Kyra led Beaker on a rambling stroll designed to shake off or bore any pursuit, bringing him at last to the stableyard entrance of a wealthy merchant. A murmured word with the chief stableman got them inside; from there they slipped in the servant's door and climbed a winding staircase to the attic of the house. Normally a room like this was crowded with the accumulated junk of several generations, now it was barren except for a line of pallets. There were only two windows—both shuttered—but there was enough light that Beaker could recognize most of those sprawled about the room.

  "Beat you, Birdbrain," Garth mocked from a corner; looking around, Beaker could see that a good half of the pallets were occupied—and that evidently, he was the last of Tarma's scout troop to arrive.

  "Well, hell, if they'd given me somethin' besides a half-dead dwarf donkey t' get here on—"

  "No excuse," Jodi admonished. "Tresti and I were Shayana mendicants; we came here on our own two feet."

  "Beaker, what have you got in the way of arms?" asked someone off on the opposite side of the room;

  peering through the attic gloom. Beaker could make out that the speaker was a skirmisher he knew vaguely, a Hawk called Vasely.

  "One short knife, and my sword," he replied. "And I've got my brigandine under this shirt."

  "Get over here and pick out what you want, then. Take whatever you think you can use, we aren't short of anything but swords and body-armor."

  Beaker crossed the attic, picking his way among the pallets, and sorted through the piles of arms. Shortly thereafter he was being caught up on the developments by his fellow scouts.

  He learned that they hid their faces by day, slipping out only at night to meet in the ballrooms and stableyards of the great lords who had also joined the conspiracy. There they would hear whatever news there was to hear, and practice their skills.

  Each night, as the Hawks gathered to spar, Kethry would siphon off the incredibly dangerous energy of their anger and hate. Dangerous, because the energy generated by negative emotions was hard to control—and attracted some very undesirable otherplanar creatures. But it was a potent force, and one Kethry was not going to let go unused. She channeled what she accumulated each night into the dozen trap-spells she was building, one for each of Char's mages. She was beginning to think that she might well be able to carry this off—for despite her brave words to Justin, she had no idea if what she planned was going to work, nor how well. She was just too new at being Adept to be certain exactly what her capabilities were.

  "I wish you'd tell me what you're going to do," Jadrek said plaintively. He'd been watching her as she traced through the last of the parchment diagrams, laying in the power she had acquired that night. There were times his patience astounded her still....

  "I didn't realize you'd want to know," she replied, sealing the new layer of power in place, and looking up at him with surprise as she finished. "Come around here behind me and have a look, then."

  He rose, moved to her right shoulder, and bent over the table with his expression sharp with curiosity. "Well, you know I'm not a mage, but I do know some of the mage-books—and Keth, what you've been doing doesn't even look remotely familiar."

  "You know what a trap-spell is. That's this part." She leaned over the parchment and pointed out the six tiny diagrams encircling the last mage's Name, as he looked over her shoulder with acute interest she could feel without even seeing his face.

  "That's just the part that's like a trigger on a physical trap, right?"

  "Exactly, except that what will activate the trigger won't be something the mage does, but something I do—a kind of a mental twist to release the rest of it."

  He examined the elaborately inscribed sheet with care, leaning on the back of Kethry's chair, and not touching the page. "That looks familiar enough from my reading—but what's all the rest of this?"

  "That's something new, something I put together. There's a mind-magic technique called a 'mirror-egg' that Roald told me about," she said, sitting back. He responded to her movement by beginning to massage her neck as she talked. "It involves surrounding someone with an egg-shaped shield that is absolutely reflective on the inside. It's something you do, he told me, when you've got a projective that refuses to lock his mind-Gift down, or is using it harmfully. Everything he projects after that gets flung straight back into his face—Roald says it's a pretty effective way of teaching someone when admonishment fails."

  "I would think so," Jadrek agreed.

  "Ah—" his gentle hands hit a particularly tense spot, and Kethry fell silent until he'd gotten the muscles looser. "I thought about it, and it occurred to me that there was no reason why the same kind of thing couldn't be applied to magical energy. So I found a spell to make a mirrored shield, and another to shape a shield into an egg shape, and combined them. That's this bit." She traced the twisted patterns with her finger above the diagram. "When Jiles got here, he agreed to let me throw one on him as a test."

  "It worked?"

  "Better than either of us had guessed. Scared him white. You see, with most other trap-spells if you have the patience to work your way through it, you can find the keypoint and get yourself loose by cutting it. Not this one—because everything you do reflects back at you. There're only two ways to break this one—from the outside, or to build up such pressure inside that the spell can't contain it."

  Jadrek pondered that in silence for a moment, while Kethry let her head sag and reveled in the relaxation his hands were leaving in their wake.

  "What's to keep the mages from building up that kind of pressure?" he asked at last.

  "Nothing—if they can. But if they try—and they don't figure out that they're going to have to shield themselves within the shield—they'll fry themselves before they free themselves."

  Jadrek spoke slowly, and very quietly. "That—is not
a nice spell...."

  "These aren't nice people," Kethry replied, recalling all the soul-searching she'd done before deciding that this was the thing to do. "Frankly, if I could call lightnings down on all of them, I would, and take the guilt on my soul. I agree, it isn't a thing one should use lightly, and just before I trigger the traps, I intend to bum the papers. I won't need them any more at that point, and I'd rather that the knowledge didn't get into too many hands just yet."

  "And later? How do you keep someone else from finding out how you did it? What if—"

  "Gods—Jadrek, love, once a thing's been thought of—it gets out, no matter what. So once this is all over with, I'm going to arrange for the information to be sent to every mage school I know of, and spread it as far and wide as I can."

  "What?" Jadrek asked, so aghast that he stopped massaging.

  "You can't stop knowledge; you shouldn't try. If you do, half the time it's the wrong people that get it first. So I'm doing the best thing you can do with something like this—making sure everybody knows about it. That way, if it's used, it will be recognized. Mages trapped inside one of these eggs will realize what's happened and get outside help before they hurt themselves, ones outside will know the counter."

  "Oh," he said. resuming what he'd broken off. There was silence for a while as he plainly pondered what she'd said.

  One more thing to love about him. He doesn't always agree with me, but he hears me out, and he thinks about what I've said before making up his own mind.

  "Huh," he said, when she'd begun to drowse a little under his gentle ministrations. "I guess you're right; if you can't guarantee that something harmful stays out of the wrong hands—"

  "And I can't; there's no way."

  "Then see that all the right hands get it."

  "And that they get the antidote. I don't know that this is all that moral, Jadrek, I only know that the alternative—taking the chance that someone like Zaras figures out what I did first—is less moral." She sighed. "I never thought that becoming an Adept would bring all these moral predicaments with it."

  He kissed the top of her head. "Keth, power brings with it the need to make moral judgments; history proves that. You have no choice but to make those decisions."

  She sighed again, and reached up to lay one of her hands across his where it rested on her shoulder. "I just hope that I always have someone around to keep reminding me when something I'm thinking about doing 'isn't nice.' I may still do it—but I'd better have good reasons for doing so."

  He squeezed her shoulder, gently. "Don't worry. As long as I'm around, you will."

  That's what I hoped you'd say, she thought to herself closing her eyes and leaning back. That is exactly what I hoped you'd say.

  Twelve

  "Tarma—"

  Tarma looked up from the maps spread before her to see Jadrek nudging his way into the knot of fighters she was tutoring. She'd had ample time to learn every twist and turn of the maze within the Palace, and she was endeavoring to make sure every person of the secret army knew every corridor and storeroom before the planned coup. She felt a twinge of excitement when she saw that Jadrek's expression was at once tense and anticipatory.

  She excused herself and turned her pupils over to Jodi. "What is it?" she asked him quietly, not wanting to raise hopes that might be dashed in the next moment. "You look like you've swallowed a live fish, and you're not certain if you're enjoying the experience."

  He raised an eyebrow. "You aren't far wrong; that's about how my stomach is feeling. Stefan's in Petras."

  "Warrior's Oath!" She bared her teeth in a feral grin as those nearby glanced at her in startlement. Although they had been planning for this very moment, suddenly she felt rather as though the fish was wriggling about in her stomach.

  "When? How long ago did you make contact? Where is he now?"

  "About three candlemarks ago, and he's with Keth at the inn; it seemed the safest place for him."

  "All right—this is it. He's here, we're ready. Let me get Sewen and Ikan, and I'll meet you at Kethry's." She turned on her heel and began making her way across the crowded, dimly lit ballroom. She kept sight of Jadrek as he slipped back out the door, and she noticed that he was slump-shouldered and limping slightly.

  Poor devil, he looks like warmed-over death. All this is giving me energy, but it's sapping his. Keth, too. Talk all day, plot all night, spellcast when you aren't plotting—

  :Chase one another around the bedroom when you aren't spellcasting—: Warrl broke into her thoughts.

  Still at it, are they? Tarma thought at him. Well, if the liaison has survived this much stress for this long, Keth's right about him being The One. Good. I'd welcome Jadrek as Clanbrother with no reservations. He's the closest thing I've seen since Keth to a Shin'a'in.

  :And he has more sense than both of you put together. Yow know, he still thinks you don't know about the love affair,: Warrl chuckled. :Keth hasn't enlightened him. I can't read her as easily as I can him, what with all her mage-shields, so I don't know why she hasn't told him that you knew about it from the first. She might assume he knows you know—or she might be waiting to see how he handles the situation.:

  I suspect the latter, given Keth's devious mind. Hmm. If anyone would know about Jadrek's condition, you would; you're practically in his pocket most of the day. He was limping—how's he doing, physically?

  :Extremely well; his bones only bother him when he's very tired, like tonight, or very chilled. Need knows how Kethry worries about him, so Need takes very good care of him.:

  Good enough to make the Palace assault with us? We need his knowledge.

  :I would judge so. He'll have every fighter of the Hawks watching out for him, after all.:

  Hai. He'll probably come out better than the rest of us will. Well—back to business.

  She had reached Sewen and Ikan by the end of that mental conversation, which had all taken place in the space of a few heartbeats. They looked up at her approach, and knowing her as well as they did, she reckoned they would have no trouble reading the news in her eyes.

  "Time, is it?" Sewen straightened, and rolled up the map they'd been working with.

  She nodded. "He's here." No need to say who "he" was—not when all they lacked for the past several days to put the plan into motion had been Stefansen's physical presence. "Keth's room. Ready?"

  Both nodded; Ikan signaled Justin, who came to take his place, Sewen did the same with the scout Mala. Within moments the three of them, darkly cloaked and moving like shadows through the ill-lit streets, were on their way to Kethry's room.

  Warrl, as always, told the others of their approach; Kethry was at the door before they set foot on the staircase, and held it open just enough that they could slip inside.

  Jadrek was already there, seated at the table; beside him, looking somehow far more princely than Tarma had remembered, was Stefansen.

  It was Stefansen the ruler who rose to greet them; to clasp the hands and shoulders of both Ikan and Sewen with that same ease and frank equality Idra had always shown, and thank them for their presence and help with a sincerity that none of them doubted. The meeting was, in some ways, rather unnerving for Sewen and Ikan; Tarma knew how much like his sister Stefansen looked, but the others hadn't been warned. And in the soft light from their candles the resemblance was even stronger. Tarma could almost hear their thoughts—shock, a touch of chill at the back of the neck—

  Then they shook themselves into sense.

  Kethry gestured, bringing three more chairs into abrupt existence, as Jadrek unrolled the first of a series of maps on the table. All six of them seated themselves almost simultaneously; Stefansen cleared his throat, and the odd note in the sound caught Tarma's attention—and by the way the other two looked up at him in startlement, Sewen's and Ikan's as well.

  "Jadrek has kept me appraised of what's been going on," he said, with a kind of awkward hesitation that he had not displayed before. "So I know the reason all you Sunhawks
are here. I don't—I don't deal well with emotion, it's hard for me to say things that I feel. But I just want you to know that I—understand. I have half a dozen reasons for wanting to roast Char over a slow fire, and that one is at the top of the list. But I think all of you have a prior claim on his hide. I was never as close to Idra as even the lowliest of her Hawks. So—if it's possible—when this is over, he's yours."

  Sewen's eyes lit at those words. "The Hawks thank you for that. Highness—an' I'll tell you true, they'll fight all the better for the knowing of the promise."

  "It only seemed fair...." He looked straight into Tarma's eyes, as if asking whether this had been the wise choice. She nodded slightly, and he looked easier.

  "Very well, gentlemen, ladies—" he said after a moment of silence. "All the pieces are on the game board. Shall we begin?"

  It was Midsummer's Night, and folk in carnival garb thronged the streets. Among the mob of wildly costumed maskers, who would notice six hundred-odd more celebrants ?

  Who would notice masks on a night of masking? Who would note six hundred-odd sets of phony weaponry among so many thousand tawdry pieces of junk like them? Who would take alarm from another merchant or peasant playing at warrior?

  Except that beneath the cheap gilding and pasted-on glass jewels, beneath the paper and the tinsel, the arms and armor of this lot was very real.

  This was the night of all nights that the rebels had hoped to be able to use—in part because of the ability to move freely, and in part because of one aspect in particular of the Midsummer's Night celebrations of Rethwellan. Though the folk of Petras were mostly long since severed from any direct ties to the farms that formed a good third of Rethwellan's wealth. Midsummer's Night was still the night which ensured the fertility of the land. There would be reveling in the streets right up until the stroke of midnight—but at midnight, the streets would be deserted. Every man and woman in Petras would be doing his or her level best to prove to the Goddess in Her aspect as Lover that the people of Rethwellan still worshiped Her in all the appropriate ways. This Midsummer's Night they would be trying especially hard, because over the past three months the priests of the city had been doing their best to encourage exactly that behavior tonight. Some of them had even unbent themselves enough to admit that—on this one night—perhaps it didn't altogether worry Her if your partner did not happen to be your lawfully wedded spouse. And that if one felt guilty after being infected with Her sacred desires and fulfilling same—well, for a case of indulgence after Midsummer's Night, penances would be few and light, and forgiveness easily obtained.